


he does not care for flowers

by interestinggin



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alzheimer's Disease, M/M, Mental Institutions
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-01
Updated: 2013-11-01
Packaged: 2017-12-31 05:16:53
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,359
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1027669
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/interestinggin/pseuds/interestinggin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He brings flowers because he doesn't know how not to.</p>
<p>Sherlock develops early onset Alzheimer's, and somehow, Greg copes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	he does not care for flowers

**Author's Note:**

> This fic deals with early onset Alzheimer's. It was written with some personal experience, and may be distressing, so please proceed with caution.
> 
> It was written for [this prompt](http://sherlockbbc-fic.livejournal.com/575.html?thread=1779519#t1779519) on the Sherlock kinkmeme and inspired by [this Mitchell and Webb sketch](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=FZKWs7VA0lU).

**June, 2015.**

Sun streams in through the windows of the corridors as Lestrade walks slowly along them, carrying a bunch of daffodils. He brings them because he doesn’t know how not to, even though the man he brings them for did not care for flowers.

A nurse smiles softly at him as he passes, and he inclines his head. DI Lestrade is becoming almost as well known around these parts as the man he’s coming to see. He wonders briefly if this should upset him more than it does.

Room 221 is at the very end of the corridor. Somebody has stuck a picture of a bee on it; Lestrade laughed the first time he saw it, a hollow sort of laugh. John didn’t. John doesn’t laugh much any more.

John is coming out of Room 221 now, with a bowl and spoon in his hand. He stops when he sees Lestrade, and his weary, grey features seem to light up ever so slightly.

“Lestrade,” he says, gratefully. “You’re not usually here on a Tuesday.”

Lestrade shrugs. It’s true. “I had some time off,” he finds himself saying. “Thought I’d come and bring the old man up to speed on the Colwood case.”

John smiles, but it is a thin smile, and it does not reach his eyes. “That’s kind of you.”

Both of them know that it is not kind of Lestrade, that he is not being kind to anyone but himself, and that the man on the other side of the door with the bee on it would not notice if Lestrade never came again.

John clears his throat. “I’ll – I’m just going to go and clean this bowl out. Would you like a coffee? I can ask Nurse Harper if-”

“Coffee would be great, thanks,” Lestrade interrupts, but not unkindly. John nods, and brushes past him. He stops by Lestrade’s shoulder as if struck by a thought, and without turning, says “It’s not a good day.”

Lestrade’s heart sinks, and he turns the door handle.

The room is bright, with friendly, yellow walls, and curtains with flowers on them, but the man in his armchair sees none of this. Lestrade walks towards him, holding the daffodils against his heart like a shield.

“Hello, Sherlock,” he says, as cheerfully as he can, and the man looks up in surprise. Lestrade feels his heart sink a little more.

Sherlock quite clearly has no idea who he is.

“Ah, yes, it’s… yes?” Sherlock is stalling for time, his voice desperate, and he waves a hand in a half hearted attempt to seem as if he knows what’s going on. When first this happened, Lestrade waited for him to finish out of respect. That doesn’t happen any more.

“It’s Lestrade,” he interrupts, kindly. “How are you feeling today, Sherlock?”

Sherlock grins, a lopsided sort of grin. “Lestrade, yes! I thought so.” He looks confused at the question. “How… how am I?”

“Yes,” says Lestrade, sitting down next to him. “How are you feeling? Are you happy?”

He shrugs. One day is much the same as the next when you can’t remember yesterday. “I’m never happy,” he says, darkly, and there’s a shade of the old Sherlock in his brow.

“I brought you some flowers,” Lestrade says quickly, anxious to get away from brooding subjects. Sherlock’s gaze is so withering, Lestrade is surprised the daffodils don’t immediately die.

“Flowers?” he says, his voice dripping with contempt. “How kind. That will help immensely, I am sure.”

“I thought they might brighten the room a little,” tries Lestrade.

“The room is plenty bright enough, thank you John,” Sherlock snaps. “A little more light is neither here nor there. Nor there,” he repeats, looking a little less sure of himself.

Lestrade doesn’t respond, but looks at the vase on the table next to him. There is a week old bunch of daffodils in it.

“The last bunch held up well, I see,” he returns. Sherlock rubs his forehead and makes a low, pained sound. Lestrade knows why – the fog is creeping in.

“Flowers,” Sherlock is muttering, “flowers for god’s sake. Never had a bunch of flowers, she’s never had a man buy her flowers, she’s not allergic, he’s cheating on her - hence the flowers, of course, of course, it all makes sense.” The touch of Lestrade’s hand on the back of his seems to bring Sherlock back to the room, to ground him, and he looks up in excitement.

“It all makes sense!” he declares, his face a picture of joy, and Lestrade smiles back.

“It makes sense. Congratulations, Sherlock,” Lestrade grins, and Sherlock sits back, a smug expression on his thin face.

“So, you have my number. You could have texted, yet you came to see me personally. What’s so important that it couldn’t wait ‘till morning?”

Sherlock’s voice is suddenly businesslike, with a trace of that irritating smirk Lestrade once hated so much.

“I – Sherlock, I-” he tries, but a voice comes from behind Lestrade’s head.

“He’s playing with you,” says John, and there is not a trace of amusement on his face.

“What?” asks Lestrade, who is, if anything, more confused than Sherlock.

“He’s screwing with you. He doesn’t think you’re here for a case.”

“John, really, if you will interrupt-”

“Stop fucking with him, Sherlock,” says John shortly, and Sherlock’s face grows sullen.

“Piss off,” he mutters, and he turns his face away.

John walks over to Sherlock and puts a heavy hand on his shoulder. Instinctively, Sherlock turns his head to nuzzle it. There is a pause in which Lestrade wants to look away, but can’t. Then John puts a cup of coffee down next to the vase.

“Careful,” John warns, not moving his hand. “It’s hot.”

Lestrade thanks him and takes a sip. It is hot, and far too watery, but right now he’ll drink it with all the enthusiasm of a dying man.

Sherlock’s eyes are still dark.

“I talked to Nurse Harper,” says John, rubbing Sherlock’s shoulder almost absentmindedly. “She said you might be going for a walk later if the weather stays fine. You’ll have a nice time, won’t you?”

“I wish Moriaty had shot me,” Sherlock responds, and Lestrade doesn’t have to look at John’s face to know that Sherlock isn’t joking, not this time.

“Sherlock,” John tries, and his voice is so terribly tired, but Sherlock won’t stop, not now, not now he knows it hurts.

“I wish he’d shot me in the gut and let me bleed to death right there. I wish I was stone cold dead like one of those corpses I used to play with. I wish I was a head in a fucking fridge for some fucking lunatic.”

“Sherlock!” John’s grip is so tight on Sherlock’s shoulder that Lestrade knows it has to be hurting him, and part of him wants to say that John isn’t being fair, that Sherlock doesn’t know what he’s saying – but Sherlock does, and none of this is fair.

John sighs. “I’m sorry,” he says to Lestrade. “He gets like this.”

Sherlock is on the verge of tears, and John doesn’t look much better. Lestrade puts his nearly full cup of coffee down and stands.

“I should probably go,” he says. He can deal with grieving over a corpse. He doesn’t want to grieve over a living one.

Sherlock smiles, a genuine smile, and waves kindly. “Yes, yes, go. We’ll be in touch regarding your case. Keep an eye on your sister, Mr Lestrade – I think you may have been right to come to me after all.”

Lestrade risks a smile back, and it doesn’t hurt too much. “Thank you, Mr Holmes.”

Sherlock nods impetuously, and turns back to John, who is putting Lestrade’s flowers in a vase. “I might play my violin,” he is saying, and John is responding with a soft “That sounds lovely, Sherlock,” as Lestrade closes the door of Room 221.

He hopes the flowers do help, somehow. But really, it doesn’t matter that Sherlock will never really see them. Because bringing flowers is all Lestrade can think to do, nowadays.

They’re what you put on graves, after all.


End file.
